


Flour Water Salt Yeast

by PrickleBrickleCitrus



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Eventual Discussions of Suicidal Thoughts, Eventual Smut, FTM/Trans Connor, Human AU, M/M, Modern Setting, Non-binary minor character, Post-Divorce Hank Anderson, Single Parent Hank Anderson, Slow Burn, Trans Character, cole is alive, discussions of anxiety, discussions of depression, these boys are so Soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-08-08 17:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16433912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrickleBrickleCitrus/pseuds/PrickleBrickleCitrus
Summary: Connor and his brother, Noah, run a bread and bake shop.Hank wanders in one day, and it's safe to say that things may not be the same.





	1. Chapter 1

3 A.M. There is a gentle breeze and the sun has not yet risen. The bell of the Lehmann Baking Co. rings softly in the cool morning air as Connor unlocks the door, letting in himself and his sibling. The curtains are still drawn on the windows as Noah flicks on the lights, letting the quiet hum of electricity sound through the small shop.

The pair are silent as they walk to the back, donning their aprons and washing their hands. They fall into their routine easily, like they have every morning for the past three years. The loaves that have risen overnight are checked, tested, and rolled for their second rise. Connor begins work on the single rise doughs, recipes that he has memorized and perfected over the years. The ingredients of each dough are carefully measured, the consistency and texture felt with knowing hands before they are shaped and left to rest.

As Connor begins to score the baguettes, Noah sets to work on his pain au chocolat. Lamination is a tricky thing, but Noah carefully folds the butter in to the dough inch by inch, deft hands developing the numerous layers of the pastry. Connor is far happier setting timers for rises, feeding starters and kneading balls in to smooth, beautiful little boules.

He will admit, however, that Noah’s pain au chocolat is absolutely to die for.

They settle in to a quick but easy pace, neither saying a single word as they work around each other in the tiny kitchen. The loaves bake, the pastries follow and the smell of butter and yeast fills the air, a feeling of home and happiness that settles deep in to Connor’s bones.

This is his life, his work, his heart. The hours are long and the work is strenuous, but nothing quite compares to it. Connor wouldn’t trade a thing for the texture of flour on his fingertips or the crackle of bread as it cools from the oven. He wakes each morning in anticipation of the feel of dough shaping beneath his palms, that stretch and give he can feel in every inch of his body as he kneads.

It’s relaxing, soothing. It helps him to forget and to pour his soul into something people love. Into something he loves deeply and profoundly. 

By 6:30 A.M., Noah’s cinnamon buns are leaving the oven and ready to cool. The burst of spice and sugar that filters through the air makes Connor smile as he sets out loaves on the shelves. The cinnamon buns really are fantastic, but he’s looking forward to their daily morning ritual of a warm drink and a pain au chocolat, hot and fresh from the oven.

There are very few things the siblings share in personality, but their dedication and adoration of baking is equally matched. Noah has always been by his side despite their cooler nature, and Connor couldn’t imagine anyone else in this shop with him.

Except Markus, of course, who strolls through the door at 6:34 A.M., early like usual to help set up shop. A wide and warm smile crosses his features when his eyes meet with Connor’s.

“Smells like heaven in here,” he quips and reaches out to Connor for a hug.

Connor rolls his eyes but can’t help smirking. “You always say that,” he replies as he wraps his arms around Markus in a quick embrace before pulling away.

“Just stating facts, my friend.” Markus chuckles as he walks behind the counter, hangs up his jacket and messenger bag before wandering back to the front.

“Anything fun on the menu today?” He’s looking over the loaves like he normally does. Connor notes that he’s most likely contemplating what to put aside for himself.

“Well, the rustic boules will be yeastier than usual.” Connor places two loaves of sourdough on the shelf as he speaks. “I had to start them earlier than normal yesterday given the chill we got overnight. I wanted them to rise properly before baking this morning, so the flavor may be different, but no less delicious.”

Markus nods. “Well, then I gotta try it.” He grabs a loaf from the shelf and takes it behind the counter, fishing through his pockets for cash before shoving it into the register.

Connor frowns. “You don’t have to pay for it, Markus, I told you -”

“Please let him,” Noah interrupts from the back. They're arranging the cinnamon buns and pain au chocolat on their respective trays. “No employee discounts or free food, _especially_ not for him.”

Markus jabs a thumb back towards Noah and raises his eyebrows at Connor. “You know I’m right when _Noah_ is agreeing with me.”

Connor chooses not to argue that point. Rarely do the two agree on anything, but it can certainly be off-putting when they do. Connor simply shakes his head at Markus’ words, continuing his work of arranging the loaves on display. Markus sets to brewing the coffee and setting up the hot-drink bar, ensuring all the cups, creamers and sweeteners are fully stocked. He fills the little tea bag dispensers and makes sure the hot water faucet is all set before shuffling back behind the counter.

Markus makes sure the register is ready to go before shoving a hunk of the rustic loaf in his mouth, chewing loudly and humming his approval.

“You should make it like that all the time,” he says, but the words struggle to come out from his incredibly full mouth, crumbs tumbling from the corners. A few catch in the fibers of his sweater.

Connor laughs as he carefully aligns the bar stools at the front of the store.

“Are you saying my bread is normally bad, Markus?”

Markus puts a hand to his chest as an exaggerated look of offense crosses his face. “I would never, Mr. Lehmann.”

Connor sighs loudly as a tinge of red crosses the bridge of his nose. Markus always knows how to embarrass him in the best ways.

The rest of the morning comes easy to all of them, a well-practiced routine that never deviates. By 7:30 A.M., the shop is clean and the last of the pastries make their way to the glass case. The curtains are pulled up at the front windows as they sit in silence and watch passers-by start to fill the sidewalks.

Markus raises his cup of coffee, pain au chocolat in the other hand as he grins at Connor to his right, Noah sitting just beyond him.

“To another great day, my friends.”

Connor smiles shyly, gently knocking his cup of tea against Markus’ and his own pain au chocolat with Noah’s. His sibling does not smile, but their features are soft and contemplative as they turn back to face the window, taking a long and steady sip of their very black coffee.

Their silence is companionable, like every other morning they share with hot drinks and warm pastries for their bellies. Connor sits nestled between his sibling and Markus, leaning just a tad more against Noah than his friend. He feels strong, unshakeable; his familial other half that cannot be swayed no matter what. It’s reassuring.

Connor sighs, a soft yet contented little sound. The early chill of late September whirls around outside, held fast by the unyielding and comforting heat of the bakery around them. Of the affection of his best friend and sibling, the three constants that anchor him.

Connor sips his tea, finishing off the last of his pastry. To another great day, indeed, he thinks.

 

=================================================================

 

5 A.M. Hank’s alarm rings out in the darkness of his bedroom. He gropes around with half-working fingers, trying to find the damn thing and shut it off. He grumbles when it finally goes silent and flops back against the pillows shoved ungracefully beneath his head. The temptation to crawl beneath the sheets and stay there just a little longer is strong, but the need to get up and get Cole ready for school is stronger.

The overnight chill from last night has seeped in through the windows, settling just outside the cocoon of his blankets. Hank settles himself a little deeper in to the sheets as he brings up the weather on his phone with bleary eyes. Chillier than yesterday, with a reasonable wind. Even more of a reason to stay in bed. He and Cole will have to bundle up well this morning, it seems.

Hank rolls off the mattress with a groan, shivering a little as he shuffles across the hall to the bathroom. He winces as he gropes at the light switch, the fluorescent bulb shining much too bright. He stares into the mirror above the sink and frowns at his reflection, at the exhaustion evident in the bags under his eyes. Hank sighs and rolls his shoulders a little, a noticeable ache radiating down his limbs due to the change in weather. He doesn’t bother to dawdle as he brushes his teeth and makes quick work of his hair, trudging back to the bedroom not long after to thrown on some clean clothes.

As he pads down the hall to Cole’s room, the hardwood feels awfully cold beneath his feet. He stares at the thermostat and wiggles his toes, a sound of displeasure huffing from his lips. He’ll have to check the furnace later, it seems. Would be better to get it fixed now, if needed, than to wait for the first snow of the season.

Quietly he opens the door to Cole’s room, peering inside at what little he can see that’s illuminated by the nightlight in the corner. Cole is wrapped tightly underneath his thick comforter, tucked to one side of the bed and sleeping soundly. Hank smiles, warmth blooming in his chest at the sight of his son, safe.

The divorce was difficult on all of them - Cole especially - but he’s thankful that Andrea is the more level-headed parent. Never once did she try to take sole custody of Cole, reassuring Hank that despite their differences and faults, she wanted Hank to stay in Cole’s life. It was a mutual feeling, perhaps the most adult decision either of them had made in the past two years. Their bitterness towards each other had grown, but in turn their love for Cole had deepened.

It was an easy choice to make, in hindsight: joint custody, where Cole would alternate weeks with both parents. They both want what is best for him. It is the most stable option they could manage. Even if the only thing he and Andrea talk about nowadays is Cole’s life and his happiness, they get along now better than they ever have.

In a way, the divorce was necessary for all of them.

Hank runs a hand down his face, trying to shake away the chill as he enters the room. He leaves the door open just a crack to let the hallway light sneak in as he sits on the edge of Cole’s bed. The boy doesn’t move, too deep in sleep to even notice Hank is there. He puts a gentle hand on Cole’s shoulder and rustles him just a little.

“Hey, little man. Time to wake up.”

His voice is barely a whisper, but it does the trick. Cole rolls over and looks at him with tired, half-lidded eyes. He blinks a few times before he smiles back at Hank.

“Hi, dad.” Cole shifts a little more, pulls the comforter up to just beneath his nose. “Is it cold today?”

Hank leans down and plants a quick kiss to Cole’s forehead. He feels warm, thankfully, despite the obvious chill.

“A little colder than yesterday, yeah.” Hank ruffles Cole’s hair. “But hey, it’s Friday, so pizza and a movie tonight?”

Cole’s eyes light up. He asks, hesitantly, “Can we have pizza for breakfast then?”

Hank laughs and shakes his head. “Nah, kiddo, we can’t. But I’ll make the special eggs for you, if you want.”

At that, Cole jumps up from the bed and dances around the room, giggling. “Special eggs! Special eggs!”

Whatever reservations Hank has about being up so early float away when Cole joyously tackles him in the biggest hug he can give. He helps Cole get ready, winning an argument about which sweater Cole should wear and making sure the boy brushes his teeth the right way. Hank makes good on his promise and cooks up Cole’s special eggs, a little treat they enjoy together at the tiny kitchen table.

Hank sips leisurely from his coffee and eats slow as Cole chatters about all sorts of things. What movie are they going to watch tonight? Can they have popcorn with their pizza? What about candy, too? Can they build that pillow fort like they did last time?

Hank just smiles through it all, nodding or shaking his head where needed. Cole is so full of life, of curiosity and intrigue and it pulls something in Hank’s chest. Things have not been so easy for him lately, hating the necessity of the divorce and the emptiness it left behind. Seeing Cole so bubbly so early always eases that pain. He doesn’t find much to live for, anymore, something he always struggled with even when he and Andrea got along. Cole makes him try, makes him want to try because the thought of leaving him behind is too much to bear.

Hank has his woodworking now, the furniture and all the odds and ends that he makes, but it doesn’t quite fill the hole in his chest. He pours his heart and soul into his work, but Cole is where his heart truly lies. Wanting to see Cole grow up, to see him become the person he is meant to be is what keeps Hank going, most days.

He tries to be a better man, because of Cole, even if some days it feels impossible.

The drive to Cole’s school is relatively quiet. Hank leaves the radio on low in the background and Cole sings along, humming to himself in the carseat in the back. Hank peeks a look every so often in the rear view mirror, smiles as Cole swings his feet back and forth while watching the world pass by in the window. Hank drops him off at the front doors with his usual hug and a kiss, waiting until Cole is inside the building before driving away.

Hank pulls into the driveway just after 7:30 A.M. Cole’s day has already begun, and Hank’s is just beginning.

With a second, freshly brewed cup of coffee in hand, Hank enters his garage. He pulls open the front door and lets the cool, September air waft inside as he puts on the lights. Fluorescents would be better out here, he knows, but he prefers the soft glow of regular yellow bulbs. It’s homier and definitely easier on his eyes.

Hank pulls his glasses from his front pocket, sliding them on to read the list he left for himself yesterday. The rocking chair he’s been piecing together needs to be finished if he wants to stain it tomorrow, and a few custom-order bowls need to be done as well. The bowls shouldn’t take long, but Hank knows he’ll need to finish and glue the chair early today if he wants it dry for tomorrow.

He pins his list front and center on his bench and sets to work. The headrest for the chair is laid out on the carving bench next to his chisels and carvers. The requested ornate floral pattern is half finished, ending just barely past the midline of the wood. He smooths his fingers along the grain, testing his own sanding work. It’s cold from the late September chill, but it feels good. Solid.

He takes the first chisel in hand and starts to rough out the rest of the pattern, hammering gently into the wood with careful movements. Little chunks fly away here and there, but he pays them no mind (safety goggles are his friend, after all) as he continues to carve all of the delicate curves and lines that will adorn the headrest.

Hank lifts the piece close to his face, brushes away small slivers and bits as he eyes his handiwork for flaws and mistakes. Satisfied, he switches to a smaller tool. He moves slower this time, pressing with precision for the smoothest curves possible. He refines the shapes, deepening them in some places and widening them in others. He bounces between tools, carvers and chisels that guide his hands to flesh out the second half of the design.

Time passes and the temperature lifts just a little. Hank’s mind is blissfully blank as he works, skilled fingers and muscle memory evident in every little line and bit of wood. His heart rate slows and the world around him disappears, piece by piece, with each chip that falls to the floor at his feet.

He lives meagerly with his woodwork, but it brings him a peace that being a cop never did. The smooth texture of perfectly sanded wood beneath his fingertips, the smell of a good piece of oak or maple drying on the racks in his shop, the sharp sting of wood stain in his nostrils when he finishes a piece. It’s so much more than detective work ever was.

Sometimes, Hank wishes he had discovered all of this sooner. He tries not to think hard on his regrets; he knows where it leads but every so often his mind wanders further than he can follow. It strays down paths in his brain that he tried to destroy years ago, reminding him of things that just won’t stay buried no matter how deep he digs.

The ugly things he and Andrea shouted at each other, their darkest moments that Cole wasn’t there to see. The way his detective work tore them apart, the way it tore _himself_ apart.

The drinking.

A tremor runs through Hank’s right hand, fingers releasing the chisel to clatter against the wood. He swallows hard as he braces himself against the table, closing his eyes and drawing in a shaky breath. He can hear the thump thump of his own heart in his ears, the blood rushing through his veins as he tries to calm himself.

The cabinet in the kitchen looms menacingly in his mind. The one that sits deep in the corner, sealed shut with a lock that no longer has a key. Inside are all the temptations he tries to hide away, the memories that he attempts to forget.

All of the shit that just won’t disappear.

With a trembling hand, Hank reaches into his pocket to retrieve the small, plastic bottle of anxiety medication he keeps close. He pops one of the tiny pills in to his mouth just beneath his tongue and drops his head in to his hands as he waits for the tablet to dissolve, to get in to his system. He continues to wrangle his breathing in to something manageable, a rhythm that won’t make him feel like he’s drowning.

In through his nose, hold, out through his mouth.

He counts on each breath, again and again, until he can feel the rush of the medication free the tightness in his muscles, until the sound of his heart beats softer in his own ears. He sits there, the chill of the morning wind threatening to lift him away, when all he wants to do is stay on the ground. He knuckles the edge of the workbench, opens his eyes to follow the delicate curves of the floral work of the headrest laying before him and exhales, long and slow.

Hank reaches out his still-trembling fingers, grasps the chisel weakly in his hand and thinks of Cole.

 

=====================================================================

 

Friday ends, and Saturday comes and goes like a warm breeze.

The weather has warmed up minimally, enough that Connor chooses to leave the shop door open a crack to let some of the built-up heat escape. He wanders around for the last half-hour of his work day, cleaning and organizing and making notes of what needs to be done in preparation for Sunday afternoon. Connor is wiping down the counter as Noah accosts him concerning a financial issue, but their conversation is interrupted by the soft jingle of the shop door bell.

Connor looks to the clock, puzzled. It’s past three. They are, for all intents and purposes, closed.

In a strange lapse of routine, Connor realizes he forgot to lock the door.

He blinks, rapidly and vaguely alarmed, at the man who enters his shop with a sobbing child in tow. Connor watches with detached fascination at their conversation, the way the man attempts to calm the child and utterly fails. The child continues to cry, wailing about not wanting to leave.

“I don’t want to go to mom’s house, I want to stay with you!”

The man bends down at the knees and takes the child’s face in one hand, smiling sadly.

“It’s just for the week, like we always do, buddy.”

Connor shares a quick look with Noah, who slinks back into the kitchen, waving a hand at Connor and rolling his eyes. Noah does not deal with people and makes it immediately clear that this is now Connor’s responsibility.

_Jerk._

Connor steps around the counter, the towel still clenched tight in his left hand, fingers worrying at the fabric. He puts on the best smile he can, stepping carefully so as not to alarm the man or the child.

“I’m sorry sir,” he begins, voice timid. “I don’t mean to inconvenience you, but we’re closed for the day.”

The man’s head jerks to the side at Connor’s voice, brows furrowed as he quickly scans Connor. His features soften when he realizes what he’s been told, standing and wiping his hands along his jeans nervously.

The boy, on the other hand, doesn’t hesitate to hide behind his father’s leg as he peers just around the limb. Connor’s lips tug in to a small grin at the sight.

“Oh.” The man runs a hand along the side of his face, distraught. “Shit. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize-”

Connor waves his hand reassuringly. “It’s quite alright. It’s my fault, I forgot to lock the door.”

Somehow, the man looks more stressed than before. Connor frowns, but chooses to remain silent as the man turns to face his son, reaching down to grab the boy’s hand gently.

“C’mon Cole, we gotta go, little man. Okay?”

The boy - Cole - doesn’t budge. His gaze is fixed on Connor, looking as though he’s been caught doing something terribly wrong. Cole shakes his head vigorously as little tears drip down his cheeks.

The man sets his jaw and inhales deeply, running his thumb over the boy’s tiny hand. “Buddy, we can’t stay here.”

Connor observes the exchange in silence, cocking his head to one side. Surely the boy isn’t intimidated by him? Connor doesn’t think of himself as being very threatening, but he also was not privy to their conversation before they entered the shop.

The man begins to lean down again just as Connor chooses to speak up. “Cole, was it?”

Gray hair whips around the man’s face as he eyes Connor, squinting just barely. Connor swallows the lump in his throat and presses on.

“Do you… like chocolate?”

It’s Connor’s turn to be observed, the older man scrutinizing him in a not-so-subtle way. Connor smiles shakily, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. He doesn’t turn his eyes away from Cole, who seems to have somehow burrowed deeper in to his father’s jeans.

“Is it okay if I give him a pastry? We have a few left over from this morning…” Connor lifts his eyes to the man, who thankfully looks relieved. He nods.

“Yeah. Yeah that’s fine. Do you want a snack, bud?”

They’re both watching Cole intently, gauging his reaction. After a few seconds, the boy untangles himself from his father’s pants and gives a tiny little nod of his own. His eyes are still wet with tears, but he isn’t crying any longer.

Connor shuffles back to behind the counter and pulls two of the pain au chocolat from the glass case. He offers one to Cole, who takes it cautiously, and the other to the older man.

“You’re welcome to have one as well,” Connor says.

The man licks his lips as he stares at the pastry, taking it with a tentative hand.

“Uhm. Thanks. We’ll uh, we’ll get outta your hair. Sorry for walking in like this.”

Connor shakes his head and fingers at the now-pocketed towel. The slightest hint of a blush tinges the tips of his ears and cheeks. “You can stay… if you’d like.”

A crawling sensation at the back of his neck causes him to turn his head and glance at Noah in the kitchen. They're staring, unblinking, as they tap at their wristwatch. Connor curses at himself, internally.

They’re behind schedule.

He turns heel towards the door, flips their sign and draws down the shade abruptly. He closes the curtains on the front window before wheeling back around to Cole and his father.

“If you need a moment, you’re welcome to sit while my brother and I close up for the afternoon.”

The man starts to shake his head, ready to decline the offer but Cole has already decided to sit. There are little smears of chocolate on his face from the pastry, his features significantly calmer as he swings his feet to and fro.

The older man looks lost and just sighs. “I guess we will be, then. I appreciate it, thanks.”

Connor squeezes the towel in his pocket just a little tighter. “You can leave when you’re all set, I’ll leave the door unlocked for you.”

With that, Connor takes his leave and wanders back to the kitchen, where Noah gives him a stern look. Connor rolls his eyes at Noah this time, smirking just a little as they continue on with closing the shop.

Every so often his gaze wanders back to the man at the front of the shop, curious. His son, Cole, appears to have calmed down and is even laughing now as his father regales some story or other. The man hasn’t stopped smiling for a few minutes, and Connor thinks of how much nicer it looks on him than the serious expression he wore when they first bustled in to the shop. The ease in his body language, how at home he looks with his son.

Connor muses that he’s rather attractive for an older man, but stops that thought urgently in its tracks.

_Don’t even think about it, Connor. Do not even go there._

As he and Noah wrap up for the day, the clock approaching close to 4:00 P.M., Connor trails back to the father and son pair, a small box in his hands filled with their leftover pastries. Noah stands by the door with smartphone in hand, slack in their posture and very obviously waiting for the father and son to leave.

Connor’s eyes flit between his sibling and the two in front of him.

“A little something for the road, if that’s all right.”

The older man looks to him with surprise. Cole, however, looks absolutely delighted.

“You didn’t… have to do that. Any of this, really, we barged in-”

Noah doesn’t pull their gaze from their phone as he adds, “Yes, you did.”

Connor and the man both glance at Noah with something akin to contempt. Connor clears his throat and offers up the box.

“Really, it’s not a problem.” He pauses, fiddles with his fingers as he pointedly smiles at Cole. “It’s the least I could do.”

The man takes the box and quietly thanks Connor before Noah makes it a point to shuffle them all out the door. The lights flicker off, Noah locks the door, and Connor stands anxiously before the older man and Cole.

It would feel rude to not introduce himself, after all.

“I didn’t catch your name, by the way.”

Connor extends his hand towards the father, who fixes him with an odd stare. Reluctantly, he takes Connor’s hand in his own. It’s warm and calloused, his grip firm and sure.

Connor’s heart flutters in his chest.

“Hank,” the man says. “My name’s Hank.”

“Hank,” Connor iterates, giving Hank’s hand a thoughtful shake.

Hank reciprocates. Connor does not want to let his hand go, but he does. The warmth and the strength of his grip lingers in Connor’s senses.

“And you?”

Connor tilts his head to one side, parts his lips as he tries to school his expression in to neutrality. “Connor. My name is Connor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First AU, first chaptered story, first for a lot of things.
> 
> I have a huge thanks to give to a LOT of people, primarily my beta North who was gracious enough to offer tips and discuss story details with me. Also a huge thanks to many others on Twitter who were willing to give me advice regarding the outline and general themes of what I have planned. This would not exist without you all.


	2. Chapter 2

The memory of Saturday’s events lingers in the back of Hank’s mind for the next week. Every now and again he can still feel a small tinge of embarrassment, but he pushes it down in an attempt to ignore it. Besides, the shop owner had been polite, kind, and oddly tactful in regards to the situation with Cole. Perhaps more than he needed to be, but Hank is no less grateful. It certainly helped ease Cole’s mind about whatever had been bothering him that afternoon about going to Andrea’s for the week.

As an added bonus, Hank has gotten to eat a delicious pastry every day for breakfast since Sunday. The little box of delightful, sugary gifts has sat on his counter all week as a reminder of last Saturday, albeit a tasty one. Though Hank has never cared much for sweets, the pastries are actually really good, and having something different in the morning brightens his days just a little.

That, of course, and the fact that each day he passes alone brings him one day closer to seeing Cole again. 

With a fresh cup of coffee in hand and a few minutes to spare, Hank wanders over to his seldom-used computer and presses the power switch. The machine hums to life with a gentle whirr as Hank sits and waits, blowing at the steam rising from the top of his mug. Many of his weekends with Cole are spent taking Sumo to the dog park, or sitting in and watching movies. The recent change in weather has given Hank a little boost of energy, and a nice outdoor activity sounds good for once.

He browses a few local tourism websites before an ad for a local apple orchard catches his eye. The corner of Hank’s mouth turns up in a small smile at the thought of it. How wonderful it would be to bring home some fresh, local apples, maybe even bake a pie. Cole would really like that. He takes note of the hours on a scrap piece of paper before tacking it to the fridge, feeling proud.

Now all he has to do is learn how to make an apple pie. Shouldn’t be too hard.

As Hank pours his second cup of coffee, he turns his head down to Sumo who is watching him with curiosity. He can’t help but feel as if the dog can read his thoughts.

“It’s just an apple pie,” he murmurs, sipping slow at the hot drink. He raises his eyebrow at the dog when Sumo tilts his head to one side as a response. “They sell those damn pre-made pie crusts at the store, right? How hard could it be?”

Sumo doesn’t make a sound and just wags his tail with a gentle whoosh. Hank grumbles, scratches the dog behind the ears and wanders off to his garage for the day. His work list for this week is smaller than usual. It’s not strange for the number of pieces to vary from week to week, but less work always dampens his mood a little. Less work means less money.

And less money means… well.

Hank chooses not to think about it, reminding himself that he has prepared for these situations. Instead, he remembers the orchard and daydreams about picking apples with his son.

To Hank’s benefit, the week passes with little fanfare. The following Saturday finds him arriving earlier than usual at Andrea’s house to get Cole, having spoken briefly about his plans for the orchard. Cole is - like always - excited to see him, running from the door with a broad smile across his face.

Hank sweeps him up in his arms and kisses him on the cheek, laughing as Cole goes on and on about apples and orchards and trees. Andrea watches them from the porch, her new partner watching idly from somewhere behind her.

Hank looks over to her and smiles sheepishly. “Thanks for agreeing to this, it means a lot.”

Andrea waves a hand as her gaze pointedly wanders over to Cole. “You know if it’s for him, I have no problem with it.”

Hank knows what she means, but the words still sting more than they should. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. Thanks again, Andrea.”

Hank makes their goodbye short, eager to get on with the day and unwilling to linger much longer than he’s welcome to. The drive to the orchard feels shorter than it should be, punctuated frequently with Cole’s questions. Hank has no qualms about indulging him where he can and isn’t ashamed to admit when he doesn’t know the answer. Luckily, an orchard employee intercepts them as they walk among the trees, happily talking at length about anything Cole desires.

Hank is grateful. The employee, a young kid no more than twenty, is patient and understanding with Cole. He’s also fairly knowledgeable, enough so that Hank feels comfortable asking some of his own questions - what kinds of apples they grow, and to they happen to have ones good for baking. The trip, overall, turns out to be a positive one for them both, and they leave with Hank feeling more confident about his decision to go.

The pie, on the other hand, turns out to be a disaster. Hank isn’t sure whether it’s the directions or his oven, but somehow it winds up raw in the center and burnt at the edges. Hank manages to slip a joke in about himself and his baking skills, and Cole has enough grace to laugh about it. They settle, instead, for eating the apples as they are while one of Cole’s favorite movies plays on the television.

“Hey, dad?” Cole sits next to him on the couch, feet tucked beneath him and a chunk of apple squirreled away in his cheek that’s he trying to chew.

Hank hums his acknowledgement and turns to Cole, ignoring the movie and giving Cole his full attention.

“Can we go back to that place with the nice man?”

Hank tilts his head a little and frowns. “What place are you talking about?”

Cole chews and chews, swallowing the bit of apple almost dramatically before he continues. “The place with the man who gave us the chocolate.”

It takes Hank a few seconds to connect the dots. The bakery, with the chocolate pastry, with the nice man. That was very much closed when they barged in. Hank swallows.

“You mean the shop with all the bread and stuff?” Hank takes another bite of his apple, wiping some of the juice off his chin.

Cole nods feverently. “Yeah! That place. Can we go there again? I really liked it, dad.”

Hank feels the rush of embarrassment creep over him slowly, but quells it before it can grow any more. He isn’t sure why it still bothers him, that Saturday afternoon, but he can stomach the feeling if it means making Cole happy.

“Yeah, bud, we can go back there. You want some more of those things with the chocolate?”

Cole smiles around another hunk of apple in his mouth. “Uh huh.”

Hank ruffles Cole’s hair and grins. “Okay then. I’ll make you a promise. I’m gonna make you a big, fancy breakfast tomorrow, and then next Saturday, we’ll go there for breakfast. Sound good?”

And that seems to seal the deal. Cole jiggles a little in his spot next to Hank, happily munching on the remainder of his apple as they both turn their attention back to the movie. Hank can only half-watch, his mind wandering as he thinks about bread and pastries, and the strangely polite young man with the dark-rimmed glasses.

 

===================================================================

 

“Strudel Saturday is here once again!”

Markus’ proclamation rings loud through the shop as he walks through the door, the clock ticking precisely to 6:30 A.M. Markus claps his hands together loudly, rubbing them together like an overexcited child. Noah lets out an exasperated sigh from the kitchen, rolling their eyes without so much as a glance in Markus’ direction.

“If he keeps calling it that, we are firing him, no excuses,” comes the off-handed remark from Noah.

Markus flashes a toothy grin at both Noah and Connor, winking at the older sibling. Connor snorts, shaking his head in mock disapproval as he continues prepping the last of the loaves for the morning. Noah finishes their work silently on their next batch of strudel, a very exaggerated look of disdain crossing his features. Markus revels in it, wiggling his eyebrows at Connor who struggles to withhold his laughter.

It may put Noah in a mood, but the strudel doesn’t suffer for it at least. Their usual Saturday morning rush comes and goes, with customers vying for the apple strudel and everything else they can get their hands on. It’s busy but it’s their routine, and everything runs as smooth as it always does.

That is, until precisely 9:03 A.M., when the bell on the door rings out through the shop and two familiar faces come wandering in timidly.

When it comes to recipes, Connor is thankful for his impeccable memory. Making effective lists and recalling ingredients and measurements with ease has made running the bakery a piece of cake. That impeccable memory, however, does not necessarily make other routine life events easier. It’s this unfortunate side-effect that causes Connor to freeze abruptly when he looks to the door to see who has arrived, his eyes locking almost immediately with Hank’s.

Connor blinks as he tries very hard not to look like a deer caught in the headlights, his brain reminding him of the events of two weeks ago. He remembers a small, tearful child, a tense situation, and a rather attractive middle-aged man with silver hair and warm, strong hands.

Hank seems to remember as well, averting his eyes after only a few seconds and directing his attention down at Cole. Markus greets them with a perfect, welcoming smile, giving Connor the chance to turn and continue rearranging the loaves on the shelf. He doesn’t wish to seem strange or awkward to a man he barely knows.

Even as he helps other customers with questions and concerns, Connor can’t help but listen to the conversation between Hank and his son. He can feel heat prickle at the nape of his neck each time Hank speaks, acutely aware of the resonance and pitch of Hank’s voice. Connor stumbles through his explanation of his sourdough making process to a woman before excusing himself hastily to the back of the shop, tucking himself in to the small office just out of view from the front end.

Noah is sitting cross-legged in the office chair, a black coffee held close to their chest as they peruse financial paperwork spread out before them. They tap a long, matte black nail against the desk as they carefully eye Connor up and down, one eyebrow arched high on their forehead.

Noah clicks their tongue against their teeth and tilts their head to the side. “Are you being chased and should I be concerned?”

Connor sags his shoulders a bit, leaning heavily against the wall as he hides his face in his hands, glasses askew. “That man is here, the one from two weeks ago.”

Noah opens their mouth then closes it, sighing before they pointedly blink at Connor. “Ah. You mean the very rude gentleman who waltzed in to our closed shop with a screaming, sobbing child.”

Connor thwacks them on the shoulder with the back of his hand and scowls. “He didn’t intend to be rude, it was an honest mistake!”

Noah rolls their eyes and turns back to the financials laid out before them. “Sure. Regardless, I fail to see how this is a problem. You gave him free food - _my_ pastries, by the way. Of course he came back. I assume he has the child in tow as well?”

It’s Connor’s turn to blink pointedly at Noah, crossing his arms as his scowl deepens. “Did you even look at him last time he was here?”

“Unfortunately,” Noah replies. They sip from their coffee, their nails now tapping against the mug. “I made sure to get a good look at his face so I could avoid him, specifically, if he ever came back. Why?”

Connor falls silent, suddenly unsure of how to proceed. The tiniest hint of a blush creeps along the bridge of his nose as he looks away from Noah to the floor, fidgeting. He can feel the weight of Noah’s gaze on him, scrutinizing for what feels like an eternity before a small sound of realization escapes the younger sibling.

“You like him, don’t you?” It feels like an accusation, but Noah’s tone is too soft. “Now that I think of it, he really is a gift-wrapped wet dream just for you.”

Connor’s eyes go comedically wide as he whips his head around to glare at Noah. His entire face flushes red as he smacks Noah on the shoulder again, harder this time. Noah smirks, laughing in to their coffee mug.

“Maybe you should go talk to him. You never know, he might be in to men.” Noah flips through the papers on the desk. Everything about them is entirely nonchalant — as if their suggestion was more akin to a good chicken recipe and not Connor trying to chat up a middle-aged man with a young child.

Connor shakes his head, his body tight in the tiny corner of the office. “No. Absolutely not. He has a little kid, there is no way he is into men.”

Noah shrugs. “And yet here he is, at a bakery eating with said child, and not a mother in sight.”

Connor wants to be irritated at how casual Noah is with all of this, yet they have a point. He breathes out heavily, running a hand over his face as he tries to shrink more in to the corner. “She could be at work, or at home, or somewhere not here. I refuse to hit on a married man, that is a very bad idea.”

“So go see if he has a ring. Easy solution.”

“Noah, I can’t just -”

“I’m serious, Connor.” Noah turns to him, pinning him down with a stare. Connor swallows. “How long has it been since you let yourself even consider the possibility of a relationship? Or even sex?”

Connor frowns as he rolls the thought around in his head. He hasn’t been with anyone since… well, at least since the shop first opened, and that was three years ago. He never let himself think about it much, too absorbed in the daily operations of the bakery to stop and wonder. Noah’s suggestion isn’t entirely without reason.

Noah reaches out to Connor from the chair and grasps his hand, peering up in to his face. “If he’s married, then he’s married, and you can tout the wonders of your bread to him until you’re blue in the face, instead.”

Connor snorts, mildly affronted. “I do _not_ do that.”

Noah hums and purses their lips. “Regardless, even if he’s not interested, you stand the chance of pulling in a potential regular. Your wet dream could be good for business.”

Connor rolls his eyes, but his heart beats rapidly in his chest, thrumming against his rib cage as he considers the possibility of talking to Hank. He lets out a shaky breath, tightening his fingers slightly around Noah’s.

“It’s been a long time, Noah.” Connor hesitates, all the things he wants to say trapped tight in his throat. He simply doesn’t know how to set the words free, all of his anxieties reaching up with greedy fingers and holding them prisoner. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

The soothing stroke of Noah’s thumb along the back of Connor’s hand melts some of his fear. The younger sibling is still sitting in the chair, a knowing look spread along their features. “I’ll stand at the front of the shop and pretend to like Markus, if it’ll help.”

Connor smiles at that, a breath of a laugh escaping him. “I appreciate it, but you don’t have to. I’ll be fine.”

Noah stands then, shooting Connor a withering look. “Have it your way. I, however, refuse to pass on an opportunity to judge a man that I already dislike, so I’ll be going up there anyway.”

Connor’s face scrunches in a strange mix of confusion and amusement. “So you’re going to silently judge the man I’m attracted to as I try to talk to him?”

“Have you forgotten that I invite Gavin-fucking-Reed over for sex regularly? I’m in no position to be judging you for your choices, I’m just petty.” With a terrible wink, Noah rounds the corner out of the office with Connor trailing close behind, shaking their head.

Connor peers out in to the dining area from the kitchen and sees the expanse of Hank’s back tucked in to one corner by the window, his son sitting close. Most of the other customers are grabbing their treats to go. Hank and his son are two of only four people actually occupying the shop, a fact that somehow makes Connor even more nervous.

It’s just a chat. A friendly check-up on a potential regular. Nothing remiss, nothing strange. Connor smooths down the front of his apron, examining the little cartoon baguettes that adorn the fabric with much more consideration than is necessary. He takes in a deep breath and holds it, turning his gaze upward once more and looking back out into the dining area. He breathes out, slow and measured, fingers rolling the edge of the towel tucked in his front pocket.

Connor takes a small, careful step forward before he stops, steps back, shakes his head. From the front counter, Noah turns to face him, motioning silently with their hand and beckoning Connor toward the front. Connor’s heart flutters so rapidly in his chest he swears he might faint. Noah gestures for him again, Connor lifts his foot and walks.

He does not faint. His feet carry him the short distance from the ovens to the front counter, from the counter to the dining area. He stops just a foot short of where Hank and his son are sitting, the rush of his own blood and the rumble of Hank’s voice loud in his ears.

Connor swallows thickly, and puts on the best smile he can muster. “Good morning.”

Hank stops mid-sentence and mid-chew, turning in his chair to face Connor properly. Cole does the same, although the boy hasn’t stopped working at the strudel already in his mouth. Hank’s face cycles through several emotions before settling on something vaguely neutral.

Hank swallows the lump of strudel in his mouth before he speaks. “Oh, hey. Hi. Good morning.”

Next to him, Cole grins, small flecks of pastry tumbling from his cheeks on to his shirt. He waves at Connor with a tiny hand. Connor can’t help but smile wider at it, thinking Cole to be a truly adorable child.

“I hope everything is well?” Connor continues to fidget with the old, tattered towel in his pocket, the only sign of his nerves peeking through.

Hank nods, licking his lips. “Yeah, no, everything’s great.” He pauses. Connor can see him contemplating his next words. “This strudel is really good. Reminds me of my mom’s.”

Warmth blooms in Connor’s chest at the compliment, beaming. “That’s very flattering, thank you. I’ll be sure to pass your kind words on to my brother.”

Hank draws back a little, looking stunned. His eyes pass between Connor and Noah, the latter watching the exchange with rapt attention. “Your brother makes this?”

Connor bows his head in affirmation. “Yes, he’s very particular about it. I manage the majority of the breads and my brother, Noah, helps. But he’s solely responsible for the pastries.”

Hank looks surprised, but pleasantly so. “Huh. I never would have guessed.”

Connor cants his head to one side, a wry smile tugging at one corner of his lips. He pushes at the bridge of his glasses, sliding them back up his face. “Did you think that I made them?”

One of Hank’s shoulders tips upward in a half-shrug. “I definitely wouldn’t have guessed he made them, that’s for sure.” Hank chances a glance at Noah before quickly adding, “Not that I - no offense. He just doesn’t seem like a pastry kind of guy.”

Connor notes the vague blush that travels along Hank’s cheeks in his attempt to double back on his words. He reassures Hank it isn't the first time someone has mentioned it, though it hardly bothers either Connor or his sibling anymore. Noah’s pushy attitude and standoffish nature usually lead customers to believe their roles in the shop to be opposites. The reaction to who makes the pastries isn’t always pleasant, though Hank seems hardly bothered by it and more intrigued than anything.

Their conversation falls silent for a brief moment as Connor observes the passers-by outside. The silence, oddly, doesn’t feel strange or uncomfortable for Connor. Hank’s presence and general demeanor are somehow soothing, despite their still distant relationship. Perhaps Connor’s approach had somehow assured Hank, given the circumstances of their first meeting. Connor isn’t quite sure, but when he turns back to Hank, the man is watching him with a softness that Connor can’t explain.

Hank runs a hand slowly over his face, eyes darting around the shop before he speaks again. His voice is lower than before, gentler.

“Listen, I - I wanted to thank you for your help two weeks ago. I appreciate it, really.” Hank glances down at Cole, his features pinching just a little. The young boy returned to his pastry some time ago, completely unaware of the conversation still happening between the two men, the corners of his lips covered in gooey bits of apple and pastry. “Things have been tough lately. You didn’t have to do what you did, but… it still meant a lot to me. And those pastries were out of this world.”

The same warmth that filled Connor’s chest before spreads out to his fingers and toes, his heart skipping a beat. Connor parts his lips, wanting to speak but unsure of what to say, overwhelmed by the suddenness of Hank’s kind words. Hank returning to the shop is a surprise in itself, but this is out of left field. Connor sways his head from side to side, his nerves getting the better of him as he squeezes the towel in his pocket.

“It’s no trouble, Hank. I just wanted to help.”

Hank freezes and Connor panics, a few tense seconds passing before Hank chuckles. “You remembered my name.”

Connor lets out a nervous laugh as his panic fades. “I - yes. I'm great with names, it helps when you have numerous regular customers.”

Hank grins as he pops the last of his strudel in to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Wish I could be. I get order forms with customer’s names on ‘em now so I don’t worry too much about that kind of stuff anymore.”

At the mention of customers, Connor can’t help but pry a little. “What kind of work do you do?”

Hank’s fork clatters against the plate before he shifts around in his seat, facing Connor properly now. He runs a hand through his hair, shrugging. Connor remembers to catch a peek at his hands, looking for that ring.

His heart nearly stops in his chest when there’s none to be found.

Just as Hank opens his mouth, Markus’ voice calls out to him. “Hey Connor, could you come here a second?”

Connor turns on his heel, caught off guard by how lost he’d become in their conversation. Markus gestures to the customer in front of him, a clear indication that Connor’s expertise is needed. A small twinge of frustration settles in his brow, but he chooses to excuse himself politely from Hank’s presence.

“By the way,” he begins, taking a measured step back. He smiles warmly at Hank, ignoring the cold sweat of his palms and the thrum of nervous energy in his veins as he continues. “I’m glad you came back.”

Absorbed in his work, Connor doesn’t catch the dumbfounded look on Hank’s face as he steps away to assist the gentleman at the counter. He misses the lingering glance of blue eyes on him as Hank and Cole exit the shop some time later, the sound of the bell and the faded brown of Hank’s jacket the only sign of their parting.

 

===================================================================

 

_Cinnamon and spice wafts through the air, surrounding Hank in a haze of sugary sweetness that makes him dizzy. With it comes vague hints of yeast, of fresh-baked bread and the bustle of eager, hungry customers._

_He gazes out the window, the sidewalk filled with life and the traffic endless. The sound of car horns echoes somewhere distantly, but Hank does not care. He smiles and it feels good. It feels natural._

_He twists his head to the left, his eyes settling on the faint outline of a man. The blurry figure focuses in to view. A bespeckled young man, with dark, curly hair and a lopsided grin. He wears an apron, soft and green that somehow compliments the brown of his eyes. His gaze meets Hank’s, his hands curled carefully in his lap. His fingers worry at the corner of a worn and well-used towel._

_They smile at each other, a shared moment between the two of them that no one else can see. Only they exist here, somehow, despite the buzz of people mulling about around them._

_“I’m glad you came back, Hank.” The breathy timbre of Connor’s voice echoes around him, enveloping him in heat and contentment. It washes away the uncertainty, the darkness that rolls and ebbs along the edges of his existence. A pleasant hum that crashes against his skin in waves, pulls him out in to its sea with a tender grasp._

_**I’m glad you came back.** _

_**Hank. Hank Hank Hank HankHankHankHankHank-** _

 

 

 

Hank wakes unexpectedly to the blare of a car alarm sounding down the street. The broken silence pulls him back to reality, to a place where his mind swims with the visions from his dream. He sighs and rolls over on his side, tucking himself tighter beneath the comforter in an attempt to trap all of the accumulated heat.

As he drifts back to sleep, his joints and muscles suddenly so heavy, the image of Connor in his dream floats around his mind. He recalls their conversation from that morning, the genuine fondness with which Connor addressed him.

A feeling he can’t quite pinpoint bubbles up in his chest and courses through his veins, like the brush of thick, silken fabric against his skin. It feels good.

It feels natural.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the length of time between the update. I didn't forget, I swear! I got pretty sick for a week and didn't write much, and then got stuck on some things. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Once again, a big thank you to my beta, North, who is kind and gracious and offers me wonderful suggestions <3


	3. Chapter 3

September comes and goes, a lilting rhythm of cold and wind bringing the first few days of October upon Detroit.

Connor doesn’t mind the cooler weather, though he could do without the wind. Waking at 2 A.M. is already a difficult task, only made more so by the rustling of branches and leaves just outside his bedroom window. His phone displays the current outside temperature at nineteen degrees Fahrenheit, including the wind chill. He groans, running a hand along his face and through the messy strands of his curls.

Despite the looming chill from outside, Connor does not hesitate in his morning routine. He flicks on the bedside lamp and starts with the bed, making the sheets and duvet with practiced ease and smoothing the fabric of unsightly wrinkles. Satisfied, he sets a timer for precisely fifteen minutes and begins a series of yoga-inspired stretches to wake his muscles and mind for the day.

As he reaches up toward the ceiling, the joints of his body cracking softly with the movements, he closes his eyes and lets his mind wander. The whistling of the wind outside fades into the background as he thinks of the man who’s become a regular in the past few weeks. Hank always arrives approximately between eight and eight-thirty each day, taking his usual coffee with cream only and two pain au chocolat. On Fridays, he ventures from this choice and will purchase a cinnamon roll instead, and always strudel on Saturdays.

Connor’s lips curve upwards just a hair, his whole body loosening up gradually. He always greets Hank with a warm smile, always inquires after his well-being and after Cole, the latter of which Hank never fails to speak of fondly or at great length. Other topics come more difficult to Connor, such as Hank’s line or work or any hobbies the man might have. Connor often finds himself too hesitant to tug on any of those threads, eager to learn more about Hank yet afraid to push him away by asking too many questions.

Connor doesn’t want to seem like a busy-body, nosing into things that aren’t his business. The idea of crossing that line terrifies him, of asking the wrong thing and Hank never returning to the shop, thinking Connor to be too odd or inquisitive.

He bends his whole body forward, practically folding himself in half as he wraps his fingers delicately around his ankles. He lets out a long, slow breath as he goes, trying to ease the sudden tension in his body from the mere thought of his… situation. He has great relationships with all of his regular customers, putting in considerable effort to maintain his reputation among them as a responsible and well-meaning business owner.

Hank, though kind and warm in all their interactions, is slower to open up than many of Connor’s other customers. Connor has always had difficulty reading people, his anxiety getting the better of him most days and leading his thoughts in wild directions, but Hank has proven more difficult than most. Connor can’t tell if Hank struggles in a similar way to open up, or if he finds Connor’s presence and company over-bearing.

It isn’t aggravating, so to speak, but it nags in the back of Connor’s mind constantly. The imaginary line he’s built to avoid stepping on Hank’s toes looms in his mind. Whether as a warning to proceed with caution or an obstacle to be taken down, Connor isn’t quite sure.

In fact, he hasn’t felt this unsure about pursuing a potential romantic partner since… well, since ever. His past partners were not customers at his place of business. All of them had been much closer to his own age, did not have any children or potential ex-spouses, and were very clear about their sexual orientation. His situation with Hank is very new and very much an obstacle.

Perhaps proceeding with caution isn’t a terrible idea.

Connor extends his arms towards the ceiling one more time just as the alarm on his phone chimes. He sighs, tapping it off before making his way to the bathroom for his shower. The rest of his morning preparation is a welcome distraction from the swirling storm of Hank that clouds his brain. His work at the shop helps as well. As the early morning hours pass, the uncertain haze that fogged his thoughts clears with each press of his hands into dough and flour, with the smell and heat of yeast and bread.

For a few brief hours, Connor forgets that Hank exists, too busy focusing on making every loaf perfect. The world outside the shop begins its day, Markus arrives and everything is as it’s always been. As always, the three of them sit by the window with their drinks and food, the wind and weather safely contained outside.

Markus chews at the last bit of his pastry before he turns to Connor, licking his lips eagerly. “So,” he begins before taking a quick sip of his coffee. “I think you should ask for his number today.”

Connor nearly chokes on his tea, shooting Markus a strained look. Noah hums in disapproval at Connor’s side.

“What? This guy has no ring, he’s been here almost every day for two weeks now, and you’re clearly in to him.” Markus shrugs and winks. “Maybe he’s in to you, too.”

Connor shakes his head vigorously as he tries to hide behind his cup. “No, that’s an absolutely awful idea. Hank has become a regular customer now, and I don’t want to make him uncomfortable—”

Markus snorts, rolling his eyes as he interrupts Connor. “If he were uncomfortable with you, he wouldn’t have come back.”

Connor inhales deep and closes his eyes, pressing two fingers against his temple. “I have been very professional with him, as I should be. He is a _customer_ , regardless of my feelings toward him. To flirt with him so directly would be…” Connor pauses, swallows hard. “It wouldn’t be a good idea.”

At Connor’s right side, Noah leans ever so slightly closer, their shoulders brushing together. They tap tap tap with one nail on the porcelain of their cup. “I find myself in a strange position of agreeing with Markus again, but only one count.”

Connor whips his head around to stare at his sibling, his brow scrunched tight on his forehead. “You _what_?”

Markus chuckles on Connor’s left. Connor feels trapped, heartbeat accelerating a little too rapidly.

Noah purses their lips for a moment in contemplation, nails clinking against the cup. “I agree it would be silly to ask for his number, but a little subtle flirtation never hurt anyone.”

“Subtle,” Connor repeats, running his tongue along the inside of his lips. “I’m fairly certain you don’t know the definition of that word, Noah.”

Noah smirks across the rim of the mug, their dark painted lips lifted to one side. “Naturally. However, I imagine that for once, Markus is far more educated in that area than I am.”

Connor lets out an exasperated groan at the thought. Of course he wants to flirt with Hank, and of course he wants Hank’s number but he is absolutely unwilling to risk the careful professional relationship he has built thus far. He enjoys Hank’s presence as a regular. To lose that would hurtful.

Connor hangs his head in his hands. “God, what kind of business owner would I look like coming on to a man I barely know, and one with a child at that?”

Markus pats him on the back, leaning down to peer in to Connor’s face. “Pretty sure there’s no laws against any of this. I’d say you’re in the clear.”

“Not illegal, but veering towards vaguely unethical,” Noah pipes in from the other side.

“Oh come on, what’s unethical about any of this?” Markus still has his hand solidly between Connor’s shoulder blades.

Connor sinks further down into his own hands, a pathetic groan escaping him. He listens distantly to Markus and Noah argue over the ethics of his dilemma, tuning out the meat of their words to think instead about the nature of subtle flirting. It really isn’t a terrible idea, though he has no idea how to even go about it all. At his place of work, with a man who’s sexual orientation is still a mystery to him.

His imaginary line in the sand burns bright behind his eyelids. _Proceed with caution_ , it warns. Connor can’t get the image of it out of his head for the rest of the morning, trying his best to quell the rapid thump of his heart and the cold sweat that coats his palms. He tugs at his worn and faded towel in between customers, pulling at the loose threads as he attempts to keep his brain from constructing every worst scenario it can think of.

Connor is no stranger to anxiety, and yet he finds himself baffled at how nervous he is at pushing his relationship with Hank beyond what it is now. When he thinks back to his previous relationships, he can’t remember his nerves ever being this fraught. His inability to pinpoint why troubles him, frustrated in part that Noah and Markus seem to have little idea at how stressed this whole situation makes him.

He absently wipes down the tables in the kitchen, knocking bits of dough and flour to the floor, wondering if he hadn’t communicated his emotions to them clear enough. Or, perhaps he did, but neither Markus nor Noah truly understand how deep Hank has burrowed in to Connor’s brain. Maybe Connor himself doesn’t understand.

The idea of that is somewhat unsettling to Connor. He’s only been talking to Hank for a few weeks — is he really that desperate? Is it even desperation, or something else? Connor runs a shaking hand through his hair, upsetting the curls with sweat and flour.

The bell on the door rings suddenly.

Connor peeks at his watch. 8:38 A.M. He turns to face the door, brown eyes wide as he watches to see who’s entered. His heart skips several beats when he sees the familiar brown of Hank’s old and weathered jacket. Silver hair. Warm blue eyes that betray too much emotion.

_Shit. Shit shit shit._

Connor’s feet feel like lead, soldered in place and impossibly cold. Hank spots him from the front, throws him a small smile and a casual wave. Connor responds in kind - _don’t look over-eager, play it cool_ \- before turning tail and walking in to the office as calmly as he can.

Noah watches him cooly from the other side of the kitchen, staring at Connor down the bridge of their nose with an expectant look.

Connor pointedly does not meet his gaze and smooths down the front of his apron before stepping back in to the kitchen. When he peers in to the front end, only Hank is sitting in the cafe, a small paperback resting on the counter in front of him. The other customer before Hank has already left.

That’s fine. Totally fine. It’s cold today, Connor tells himself. Their morning rush will be a little later than usual. This silence could work to his advantage, is all.

Connor strolls around the equipment and ovens to the front, taking his usual place at Hank’s side. He resists the urge to fiddle with the towel in his apron pocket, instead choosing to rest his hands on the back of the stool to Hank’s left. Hank turns to him and the right side of Connor’s mouth ticks up in a smile.

“Good morning, Hank.” Connor tries very hard to keep his eyes focused to Hank’s own blue ones, wanting to draw attention away from the way he’s just barely white-knuckling the chair. This conversation doesn’t need to be any different from their ones before, yet Connor feels like a rabbit ready to sprint from a wolf.

Hank is chewing through a piece of his pain au chocolat but grins anyway, cleaning his fingers with the napkin beside his plate. “Hey, Connor, how’s it going?”

Connor wiggles his toes in his shoes, glancing briefly down at his own fingers. His smile softens as he looks back to Hank. “Good. Everything is great, though it’s somewhat slow this morning because of the sudden cold.”

Hank nods, humming his agreement. “Yeah, this is pretty sudden isn’t it? Was surprised when I rolled out of bed.”

Hank takes another large bite of his pastry, chewing it slowly as his eyes dart once or twice to the people traversing the sidewalk outside. He sips at his coffee before continuing.

“I almost thought about staying in this morning, but I swear I’m addicted to these damn things,” he says, head jerking toward the pastries on his plate.

Connor lets out a breathy laugh, letting his teeth poke a little out from behind his lips as his smile widens. He notices that Hank is watching him, the blue of his irises bouncing up and down from Connor’s own eyes to his lips. Connor unconsciously does the same, his smile diminishing but no less warm.

 _A little subtle flirtation never hurt anyone_. The phrase echoes loud and clear in his head, and he lets it drive him. Subtle is good. Subtle is cautious, and Connor is never anything but.

He steps just a hair’s width closer to Hank, letting his body lean closer towards Hank’s personal space but without boxing him in. Hank doesn’t seem to mind, and so Connor moves their conversation forward.

“Well, I’m certainly glad you chose to come. It’s always nice to see our regulars come back.”

A foreign look flashes across Hank’s features for a second before it fades. He looks away from Connor, watching the world just beyond the window. “I don’t know if I really count as a regular, I haven’t been coming here _that_ long. But,” he turns back to Connor, a cheeky grin on his face, “gimme a few more weeks and you probably won’t be able to get rid of me.”

Hank chuckles and something about the sound loosens the tension in Connor’s shoulders. He stares at his own hands and finds himself feeling relaxed, at ease. Comfortable, even. How is it that Hank can do that to him?

“You know,” Connor starts, head tilting to one side as he watches Hank sip from his mug, “the pain au chocolat are really delightful right out of the oven, when the chocolate is just melted and the pastry is nice and crisp.”

Hank pins him with a look over the brim of the mug. “No one told me you can heat up the pastries here.”

“Well, we don’t normally do that, but the ovens are still warm and I’d be happy to heat one up for you.” Connor blinks. “If you’d like, of course,” he adds hastily.

Hank gestures to the still uneaten pastry on his plate. “Hell yeah. Can’t tease a man like that and not follow through.”

Connor feels heat prickle at the back of his neck and the tips of ears before turning away, not willing to let Hank see the blush that most certainly peaks along the bridge of his nose. “I’ll grab another one for you,” he offers.

Connor heads back in to the kitchen to slide a pain au chocolat in to one of the still warm ovens. As he circles around to face the front again, Markus is close on his heels, doing the same. Connor eyes him suspiciously as he leans close, clearly pretending to talk business.

“Take the second one and go sit with him,” Markus murmurs, his arm carefully concealing their faces from Hank. “It’s slow, Noah and I can handle whatever comes in.”

Connor glances between Markus and Noah, the latter rifling through their supplies and taking note of what needs ordering. Connor isn’t sure if Noah can even hear them, yet they wave a hand in their direction anyway, a clear signal of agreement.

Markus pries open the oven and pulls the pastries out onto a waiting plate, pushing it in to Connor’s hands as he nods over in Hank’s direction. “Go on.”

Calmly, Connor takes the plate and walks back to Hank, sliding it beside him. Small tendrils of steam rise from the pastries, the smell of melted chocolate wafting between them. Hank looks down at the plate, surprised.

“You didn’t have to grab another one,” Hank says. His voice carries a hint of guilt, but the lick of his lips betrays him. “Or two.”

“It’s quite alright. Consider it my treat,” Connor offers, smiling as he pulls a stool free from beneath the counter and sits with care. “The second one is for me, though. Quality assurance, if you will.”

Connor knows that both Markus and Noah are keeping tabs on the situation, and he makes an effort to keep his gaze fixed forward, ignoring them. He can practically feel their eyes boring holes into the backs of his and Hank’s skulls. Thankfully, as he finishes adjusting himself in the seat, two customers enter the shop, drawing attention away from him and Hank.

Connor takes the opportunity to shift himself closer, sitting at a similar distance to the one he stood at before. Hank seems oblivious once more, too preoccupied with licking clean the gooey chocolate coating his thumb. Connor stares as he bites in to his own pastry, chewing thoughtfully and gauging Hank’s reaction.

“Shit, that’s good,” Hank mumbles around the bite in his mouth. “Didn’t even think to try heating these up at home.”

“I recommend using your oven instead of the microwave,” Connor replies, swiping his own thumb at the corner of his mouth to clear away a stray glob of chocolate. He sticks the digit into his mouth, gently licking it before continuing. “Too long in the microwave can compromise the integrity of the chocolate, and the quality of the pastry will suffer as well. A low temperature for a few minutes should be fine.”

As Connor tears another piece of his pastry to eat, he looks over to Hank who is… staring. Not rudely, but with apparent interest, even as the pastry on his plate begins to cool. They lock eyes for a few seconds, but to Connor it feels as though time stops.

Hank’s eyes are so much bluer here, highlighted by the natural light filtering in through the window. The rugged tiredness he usually carries in his face seems to disappear, the lines of his age smoothed away with the early morning sun. Most of his hair has silvered over the years, but Connor can see the vague hints of his natural color near the ends, blond maybe? A quick flash of what Hank may have looked like ten, twenty years ago passes through Connor’s mind and he blushes a furious red across his cheeks and neck.

Connor tears his eyes away rapidly, holding his breath as he looks back down at his pastry. Hank clears his throat, loud and obvious, turning his gaze back to the people passing on the sidewalk. An awkward silence punctuates the next few moments, something Connor cannot abide for very long.

“How have things been for you, Hank?” Connor interjects, side-eyeing the older man as he brings a small bit of pastry to his mouth. “How is your son?”

Hank coughs again, mimicking Connor’s motions as he wags his head up and down. “Uh, good. Things are good. Cole’s great. They’re doing some Halloween get-up in the hall at school, lots of pumpkins and bats and shit. He loves it, won’t shut up about it, actually.”

“Is he dressing up this year?”

Hank goes oddly quiet for a length of time, as if contemplating his words carefully. Connor’s heart flutters in his chest, feet and palms going cold. Has he crossed the line? Surely he hasn’t, not yet. He can’t help but stay frozen in place, hands hovering precariously over the last bit of his food.

“Yeah,” Hank starts, breaking the silence. “He’ll dress up this year, always does.”

The response is terse, clipped. Connor opens his mouth as if to speak, closes it, opens it again. An apology tumbles free despite his best efforts.

“Hank, I… I didn’t mean to offend, I can leave if you -”

Hank waves his hands in a gesture of placation. “No, no it’s not you, don’t worry about it. It’s not you.”

Connor can’t help feeling that it is, despite Hank’s reassurance. He inhales then sighs, ready to speak, but Hank continues on.

“It’s… It’s the arrangement, what we agreed on.” Hank shoves the last of his food in his mouth before chasing it with the final sip of his coffee. “Me and his mother. I don’t really have any family in the area anymore, so he spends every holiday with her, even the silly ones like Halloween. It’s just easier that way.”

Hank sets his mug down on the counter with a soft clatter, decidedly looking everywhere but Connor’s direction. Connor finds himself surprised at the admission, with the guilt and the despondency with which Hank confesses something so personal. He isn’t sure if knowing of Hank’s divorce now is a privilege or the result of unintentional prying. It makes his chest tighten uncomfortably.

This is not the direction that Connor intended for their conversation. A nebulous feeling overtakes him, something not unlike shame. He feels sympathy for Hank, a near-empathetic sadness that curls tight around the muscles of his heart. He wishes to reach out and lay a hand on the man’s shoulder, but he knows such an action will definitely push him across the boundary he has laid out so clear in his mind.

So he does the next best thing he can think of, righting himself in his chair and putting on the warmest smile he can muster. “You’re always welcome to bring Cole by the shop once Halloween is closer, if you’d like. Markus usually sets out a small bowl of candy for the children.”

That, oddly enough, earns a laugh from Hank. “If I brought him here for Halloween, he definitely wouldn’t have his eye on the candy.”

Like father, like son; it’s a sweet sentiment that helps mitigate some of the tightness that had settled in Connor’s chest. He chances a look at Hank again, takes note of the way his lips curve tenderly upward, at the warmth his eyes exude. Connor really could stare at him for hours, a feeling he clings to selfishly for another few seconds.

On a whim, Connor glances at his watch: 9:18 A.M. He sighs internally, wishing he could sit longer with Hank but knowing that there is other work to be done. Besides, it wouldn’t be polite to keep Hank too long. Connor stands from his stool, taking both plates and Hank’s mug from the counter.

“I shouldn’t keep you any longer.” Connor pushes in the stool with his hip as he stacks the two plates and rests the mug on top. “I’m sure you have things to take care of, and I have some financials that require my attention.”

It’s a bit of a white lie — the shop paperwork was finished two days ago, but Connor would like to give the supply orders a once over before Noah sends them out later today.

Hank nods in understanding, rising from his own chair before giving a long stretch. “Unfortunately, yeah. Probably should have left a while ago, but you know, time flies and all that. Gonna grab a loaf of bread before I head out though, forgot to get one at the store the other day.”

Connor hugs the glass ware close to his chest. “Of course. Markus will help you when you’re all set.”

With that Connor shuffles off to the kitchen, placing the dishes in their respective spot for cleaning later in the day. On his way back to the front he snatches the order forms from Noah at the office, stopping by the register just as Markus finishes bagging Hank’s purchase. Markus quickly slides the receipt inside, folds over the brown paper and pushes the loaf across the counter towards Hank.

“Take care, Mr. Anderson. Good to see you again.” Markus flashes one of his renowned smiles, nodding at Hank as the man heads for the door. Hank waves to them both, fingers resting on the handle of the door just as Connor pipes up.

“Have a good day Hank. We’ll see you soon?”

Hank pauses, fingertips drawing away from the handle a fraction of an inch. “Yeah, of course.”

He turns the handle and pushes the door open, taking one step out before turning around.

“You have a good day, too, Connor.”

A cold draft of air snakes its way in, swirling around the register as the door closes with a soft click.

Connor barely feels it.

=======================================================================

The day passes in a haze for Hank.

Despite striking through every item on his work list for the day, a strange feeling tugs at the back of his mind. Even as he sands or stains or cuts planks for upcoming projects, it never quite disappears. After lunch he takes one of his anxiety pills, hoping that it will help clear his mind and chase away whatever stray thoughts are trying to burrow in to his head.

His mood lightens by the end of his work day, but the feeling doesn’t dissipate. It only softens, more akin to a thick lump of cotton at the base of his skull than the irritating drag from before. Suspiciously, when he pokes and prods at whatever it may be, it always leads back to Connor and their conversation earlier in the day.

Connor has never been anything but polite with Hank, all of their talks being short and sweet. Yet Hank knows that something different happened this morning, as though Connor were trying to reach out to him in someway. Heating up the extra pastry was certainly a very kind gesture, but Hank can’t shake the feeling Connor offered because he felt bad. Did Hank look especially tired this morning? Or sad? Did Connor sit with him for so long because he pitied Hank?

The last thought makes Hank’s stomach churn. He’s too old for pity and definitely not interested, no matter how well-intentioned. And yet…

He remembers the way Connor had confidently discussed reheating the pastry, something about the integrity of the chocolate and the dough. He remembers how Connor had licked the chocolate free from his thumb, how he’d glanced at Hank like the moment they shared was the most normal thing in the world. Like it wasn’t at all odd for Connor to come back with not one, but two pastries, as though they were friends chatting it up for their usual morning coffee break.

No, it wasn’t pity. Connor is too professional for pity. Perhaps he feels more comfortable, now that Hank has been to the shop every morning for just over two weeks. Hank didn’t even think to question any of it, too grateful for more free food and companionable company. He most certainly doesn’t object to Connor’s presence, quite the opposite. He finds his talks with Connor almost soothing, in a routine sort of way. Something nice to expect, no matter how low his mood. It feels good to be welcomed like that.

Inexplicably, it’s come to feel almost natural. Get up, get dressed, go to the shop, eat and drink and chat with Connor. Like it’s always been that way.

As Hank cleans the garage for the day, flicking the lights off on his way out, a thought pierces sharp in his mind: was Connor _flirting_ with him? The thought is sudden enough for Hank to freeze at the threshold of the door, fingers still poised over the light switch.

The smiles, the free food. The way Connor had sat with him, close but not uncomfortable.

Hank’s heart nearly stops in his chest.

Holy shit. _Holy shit_.

No. There’s absolutely no way this thirty-something kid was hitting on _him_ \-- an old, divorced, wash-up of a man. Hank shuffles in to the house, shaking his head at himself. Connor is _professional_ , he is kind and treats his customers with respect. Asking after his well-being, sitting with him on a slow morning, warming a free pastry for the both of them, sharing his time and his hospitality-

No. No fucking way.

Hank falls in to the kitchen chair in disbelief, shocked at his own thought process. How lonely must he be to think some young shop owner he barely knows is interested in him? _Why_ would Connor be interested in him? What could he possibly offer to Connor that Connor can’t find in someone his own age?

With a grumble, Hank reaches across the kitchen table for the loaf of bread he bought earlier, pulling it free from the brown paper bag. He decides that he’ll make a sandwich for dinner, and pointedly not think about the implications of believing some doe-eyed young kid might be trying to butter him up. He stands from the chair with determination, crumpling the paper bag in his hand before he notices the receipt fall to the floor. He reaches down to grab it, ready to throw it in the trash as well but something catches his eye.

Delicately he grasps the slip, brings it closer to his face and reads what’s written in sprawling writing along the back. 

It’s a phone number. A goddamn phone number.

Hank stumbles back in to the kitchen chair, staring blankly at the numbers. He scrunches his eyes shut, resting his head in his free hand and thinks. He could have doubted his gut just moments before, but now? Now there’s very little room for doubt. The entirety of the morning hits him like a slap in the face, all the pieces falling neatly in to place.

Holy fucking _shit_.

Hank opens his eyes, traces the line of each number with them as he mentally walks himself through the morning. Connor, approaching him with a sort of shy confidence, sharing his space but not intruding. Connor’s warm smiles, the brightness in his brown eyes, the flour in his curls that Hank didn’t bother to mention. The slight, uneven tilt of his glasses along the bridge of his nose, the one that burned bright red when Hank let himself stare a little longer than was polite.

Hank frowns. What the hell was he staring at, anyway? Sure, Connor is an attractive young man, but Hank is well past the years of sexual experimentation, and why in hell would Connor even want to shack up with some dude like him? Hank has a kid, too many financial responsibilities, a whole lot of baggage, and -

And is he actually _considering_ this?

Hank flattens the receipt against the table over and over with the palm of his hand, the paper growing vaguely damp with the sweat from his palms. The last time he ever considered doing anything sexually with a man was years ago, long before marriage and kids and police work. Over time, as work got rougher and his relationship with Andrea came and went, Hank was certain that men were never really his thing. Now, he realizes, he never did allow himself to explore that.

Perhaps now is a good time. If Andrea can take a string of partners post-divorce, why can’t he?

It helps that Connor is cute, awkward in an adorable kind of way. Endearing, almost. Hank likes talking to Connor, and some part of him looks forward to seeing him at the shop in the mornings. He’s seen the way the young man fidgets with things, little nervous ticks he tries to hide whenever Hank’s around, but Hank always catches them. Thinking on it makes him smile, a little seed of fondness blooming in his chest.

From his pocket Hank pulls his phone free, resting it on the table next to the phone number. He sits like that for what feels like an eternity, debating back and forth in his mind if texting this number is worth it. Maybe it isn’t even Connor’s number. What should he do if it isn’t?

Hank picks up his phone, unlocks it and brings up the new message screen. He types in the number, thumb hovering over the empty text box. He bites his lip, taps his foot against the floor in a nervous rhythm as he starts to key out a message.

Only one way to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the length of time between the updates. End of the semester, personal things, all that jazz. But here we are! Hope it was worth the way.
> 
> And, as always, for my beta North who is amazing <3


	4. Chapter 4

The text arrives as Connor is brushing his teeth for the evening. He hasn’t yet silenced his phone, so the gentle ping of his text alert noise sounds from the other end of the bedroom. With a slight scowl he spits in to the sink and rinses, padding quickly over to his phone on the bedside table. All of his friends know that past seven in the evening is a bad time to text, so who on Earth could this be?

He unlocks the device and stares at the phone number, cocking his head to the side. A contact he doesn’t have in his phone already? Odd, but he peers at the message anyway.

_(7:02 PM) hey, i’m not sure if this number was meant for me or not. found it on a receipt in my shopping bag from this morning. just thought you should know, in case someone’s handing out your number._

Connor frowns. Who would hand out his number? Perhaps the person on the other end has made a mistake somewhere.

_(7:03 PM) I apologize, I don’t recall giving my number to anyone this morning, or writing it on the back of a receipt. Is it possible you’ve entered the digits wrong?_

Connor flips his phone to silent before resting it back on the table, the screen facing down against the wood. He tucks himself tight beneath the blankets of his bed, shutting off his bedside lamp before curling tight against the mattress. He would feel awful ignoring such messages if they were a friend, but he has no connection to this stranger. Besides, it’s important for him to fall asleep within the half hour if he’s to get at least six hours of good, restful sleep.

Except he can see the thin, hairline crack of light that peeks out from beneath his phone when another message arrives. He rolls over in the bed, scrunches his eyes closed and pulls the comforter around his head in an attempt to forget the phone exists. It doesn’t work. Not even thirty seconds later he’s rolling back over, sighing as he grabs for his phone to see why this is so important to this stranger.

He has a strict schedule to keep, and it irritates him to have it interrupted so thoughtlessly.

Grumbling he snatches the device, pulling the response up on the screen and squinting.

_(7:05) that your number??_

Accompanying the text is a somewhat blurry photo of the receipt, though the handwriting is clear enough. He carefully reads each digit, confirming that it is indeed his. How strange. He begins to type a reply, ready to apologize for some unusual misunderstanding, when he freezes mid-word. An uncomfortable feeling buzzes in the back of his brain.

Scrunching his brow he looks over the picture again, scanning it intensely. Something’s not quite right. He looks it over again and again before it dawns on him: he recognizes that handwriting. Why is it so familiar? Why would he even recognize the handwriting of some random--

Every muscle in Connor’s body tenses, the blood in his veins running as cold as ice. He shuts his eyes tight, exhaling a slow and shaky breath.

It’s Markus’ handwriting. Markus, who wrote his number on the back of a receipt. Who, without a doubt, gave that receipt to one Hank Anderson. A one Hank Anderson who is now texting him asking who he is.

“Shit.” The curse is soft, breathy in the dark of his bedroom. “ _Shit_.”

Connor swallows against the sudden dryness in his mouth and throat, thumbs trembling over the now dark screen of his phone. How is he supposed to reply? What type of explanation does he have? Should he even tell Hank who he’s talking to?

_Oh, my apologies, this is Connor from the bakery and it seems Markus gave you my phone number because I am attracted to you and would love to take you on a date, hope this isn’t terribly awkward for you because it is for me._

Connor laughs darkly to himself. Markus would find that hilarious; Hank probably would not. As he goes to unlock his phone, ready to somehow fix all of this, a new message pops up on the screen.

_(7:11) so. i take it this was some kind of misunderstanding. sorry to bother you._

A different kind of panic settles in Connor’s body as a world of possibilities and their outcomes leap in rapid succession to the forefront of his mind. Total honesty is always an option, but given the situation it may not be the most tactful and could drive Hank away in more ways than one. He could lie and confirm the misunderstanding, but that would set him back in his progress with Hank and eliminate this method of communication for some time. Plus, should they exchange numbers in the future, it isn’t likely that Hank will forget this conversation and could uncover Connor’s lie.

Connor worries at his bottom lip, tapping his index finger on the back of his phone. No, neither of those would do, but somewhere in between could work to his advantage. Subtlety, proceeding with caution. At the very least, he has to try. Quickly, he taps out a response to keep Hank engaged.

_(7:12) It’s not a bother at all. I am curious, though, could you tell me which shop this came from?_

Connor looks over the words, hitting send as he jiggles his leg a tad beneath the sheets. The uncertainty of where his words will take him coils tight in his belly, but he refuses to let it stop him. After all, Markus dragged him unwittingly in to this game. If that’s how it’s going to be, Connor should turn the odds in his favor.

Hank’s reply slides on to the screen only a few seconds later, confirming Connor’s thoughts.

_(7:12) the little bake shop on main. few doors down from that fancy steak place on the corner, jimmy’s i think it’s called?_

Connor’s heart starts to beat more rapidly in his chest, thumb brushing over the words on the screen. Hank has to know it’s him. Noah never speaks to Hank unless absolutely necessary, and Markus only ever greets him with casual small talk. Connor is the one person at the shop who talks regularly with Hank, the one person who has expressed any interest in getting to know Hank better.

What if Hank knew it was him before he sent the first message? What if he sent the message hoping to get a response? The thought is both terrifying and exciting. Hank, reaching out of his own accord to speak with Connor, wanting to get to know him better, wanting more--

Connor quickly clamps down on his errant thoughts, wrangling in his emotions before they run wild. He contemplates Hank’s situation for a moment, and finds that he would do the same. At the very least, he would want to know whose phone number he now possessed. Hank is simply exploring his options, solving a mystery as it were.

 _Caution_ , his mind warns him. He must proceed with caution.

Connor pulls in a deep breath to clear his head and ease his nerves before proceeding with the conversation.

_(7:14) Do you go there often?_

An easy, simple question. Hank’s reply is nearly immediate.

_(7:14) yeah. most mornings. good food and it’s always quiet. staff is nice too_

Connor smiles at the response, a spot of warmth blooming in his chest. Even the smallest compliments feel good to hear. Huffing out a small laugh, he begins to type a response but another reply appears on screen.

_(7:15) if we’re gonna talk, can i at least get your name?_

Connor blinks at his screen, lips parting in surprise. Hank has him backed into a corner. Lying about his name would be _incredibly_ unwise. Connor gives himself a few seconds to think, tongue darting out between his lips as he begins to type. His eyes cycle across his response over and over before he decides to be bold and throw caution to the wind.

He hits send, waiting anxiously for the reply.

=====================================================================

_(7:15) if we’re gonna talk, can i least get your name?_

Hank taps the send button, poised at the kitchen table still with one leg bouncing beneath as he waits for a response. Admittedly, he wasn’t expecting much when he first texted the number, but now he’s certain that Connor is the one on the other end. The manner of the responses are too polite not to be Connor.

Hank’s phone vibrates in his hand and a spark of excitement jumps along his skin. He’s been out of this game for so long, forgotten all about the unique brand of anxiousness that comes with talking to someone new. Someone who might be interested in more than just friendship. He reads over the new reply eagerly.

_(7:15) I’m more curious about yours, given that I’m one of the shop’s owners._

“Cheeky little shit.” Hank grins, feeling accomplished. No uncertainty now about who he’s texting. He sinks back into the chair a little, drying his damp palms on the fabric of his jeans. He keys out a response, wondering if Connor has any idea to the mysterious identity of his phantom texter.

_(7:16) oh? didn’t know you guys had a policy for slipping your phone numbers in to customers bags_

Connor is perhaps being purposefully elusive, but Hank has the patience and just enough mischief coursing through him to play this game. Besides, he was a detective once -- putting the pieces of this little puzzle together hasn’t been terribly difficult, but definitely amusing. His only regret is not getting to see Connor’s face reading his recently sent message. Hank chuckles at how ridiculous that face might look.

Connor’s response is near immediate.

_(7:16) I can assure you it’s not. That would be highly unprofessional of myself and the staff._

Hank licks his lips, still grinning. Highly unprofessional, huh? A clever, subtle move is more like it.

_(7:17) and yet here we are. i’ll tell you what, how about you explain why your number wound up with my bread, and i’ll tell you who i am. deal?_

A full two minutes pass before Hank’s phone vibrates with a response. He drops the now damp and crumpled receipt he was fiddling with, reading over the words on his screen.

_(7:19) I believe one of my colleagues felt bold enough to share it. I intend on finding out who tomorrow morning. I think you owe me a name, now._

Now that’s interesting. Hank worries at his bottom lip, drumming his fingers on the table as he considers a response. It may explain how the number fell in to his hands, but it still skirts along the edges of why, and Hank simply can’t abide not knowing why.

_(7:19) fair enough. still doesn’t explain why they’d do it._

Hank waits, idly picking at the skin along the side of his thumb. Two minutes pass, then three, and he sighs anxiously at the lack of response. Given the situation, perhaps Hank shouldn’t blame him for playing it safe.

From the floor, Sumo whines at him softly while his tail swishes along the linoleum in hopes of food. Hank looks at the clock and realizes it’s past dinner time for the both of them. He’ll feed Sumo and then make that sandwich he was thinking about earlier, and it should distract him from the nerves of waiting on Connor’s reply. In fact, it’s enough of a distraction that he misses the vibration of his phone while returning the jar of mayonnaise to the refrigerator.

When he sits back at the table, the sound of Sumo crunching eagerly at his kibble echoing through the kitchen, he’s surprised there’s a response at all. Despite his professionalism and well-meaning attitude, Connor seems rather quiet and reserved, and definitely the nervous type. His responses make it clear that Connor isn’t so keen on sharing details unless he must, carefully dancing around questions of identity and intent.

Chewing around a large bite of his sandwich, Hank contemplates the words on his screen.

_(7:24) It may be easier to explain that if I knew who you were. Regardless, you must have an interest of your own in mind if you’re still messaging me. Surely you know who I am by now, so why hide your own identity?_

Hank snorts, chuckling around a full mouth. A bit of lettuce slips from between the slices of bread as he puts the sandwich down on the plate, wiping his hands on his shorts before replying.

_(7:25) because i think you know who i am, and you want a reason to keep talking to me._

Hank hits send, swallowing, before quickly tapping out another message.

_(7:25) just tell me why. no need to be shy about it, connor._

A few seconds tick by, Hank’s thumb hovering over the send button, eyeing Connor’s name on screen. Bold, perhaps, but it might be worth it. He taps the icon and watches the message float on to screen, waiting to see if his gamble pays off. Only a minute passes this time, quicker than Hank expected.

_(7:26) I’m not being shy. You’re the one being shy._

Hank bellows out a laugh at that, shaking his head as he grins to himself.

_(7:26) but you do know who i am._

There’s no reply for well over a few minutes. Hank sends another message, trying to coax a little more from Connor.

_(7:29) what if i said i was glad to have your number?_

Another, near immediate response comes through.

_(7:29) I’d say you’re lying._

Hank huffs out a quiet laugh, an idea striking him suddenly.

_(7:30) give me a chance to change your mind?_

A double buzz and the reply pops in to view.

_(7:30) What do you mean?_

Tap tap tap. Sumo groans on the kitchen floor, legs splayed out awkwardly along the tile. Hank’s sandwich is forgotten, half-eaten on the plate. He hits send.

_(7:30) let’s meet somewhere tomorrow, not the shop._

As an afterthought, he adds:

_(7:30) just to talk. not a date._

There’s a brief lull in the messages. Hank takes a thoughtful bite of his sandwich, laying it down carefully as the reply comes in.

_(7:31) Then why not come to the shop after it’s closed?_

“Jesus, Connor,” Hank mumbles to himself, rolling his eyes. It would be convenient, but the idea of discussing all this while Connor’s brother mulls about the shop like a predator in the background seems… uncomfortable. Hank offers up a more private alternative.

_(7:31) how about the river walk instead? there’s a small park along there not far from your shop. pick a time and i’ll meet you there._

Hank takes another bite of food, and Connor sends another reply.

_(7:32) I’ll concede to that. Would 5 P.M. work for you then?_

Hank smiles softly, a new wave of anxiousness coursing through his veins as he agrees to the time. It’s not a date, he reminds himself, but it could lead up to one, perhaps something more a few weeks from now.

That night, as he prepares himself for bed and briefly scans through his task list for the coming day, he can’t help but let his mind wander and imagine all these new possibilities. Sure, Connor is young and their life experiences are vastly different, but Connor is… Connor is sweet, and kind, one of the few new faces in Hank’s life that he’s actually welcomed.

Just before he shuts off the bedside lamp, Hank lets himself scroll through the messages one more time, allowing just a burgeoning bit of warmth creep along his body. Changes do not come easy lately, especially after the divorce as he and Andrea tried to keep to one schedule for Cole’s sake. He hadn’t given himself this kind of freedom, feeling too guilty or too ashamed to move on so soon like Andrea did. Now that the possibility presents itself, even if a small one, Hank desperately wants to grab hold of it and never let go.

He wants something for himself, but a small inkling of fear grows like tiny little tendrils along the back of his mind. He knows he isn’t forbidden to want this, to move on and move forward like Andrea did. Hank tries to push away the swelling doubt that rises from his stomach like bile, trying to convince him that it isn’t worth it, that there’s nothing here for a man like him.

He’s allowed to have this. He’s allowed to believe, to feel that he can have more in his life.

He places his phone on the table, shuts off the lamp as he rolls over beneath the covers, that strange yet alarming feeling of anticipation overtaking him. Changes are not easy - they never are, but perhaps this one will be easier than most.

=======================================================================

In the morning, Connor can’t find it in himself to be upset with Markus. The wide smirk on his face and the twinkle in his mismatched eyes when Connor mentions the upcoming meeting between himself and Hank serves only to heighten his already climbing anxiety. It isn’t the sickening, stomach-roiling kind, but it still punctuates every moment of his day. In between kneading and customers and rearranging things in the shop, he spends his time counting the minutes, staring obsessively at the clock and begging for the day to move faster.

Markus, somehow, keeps busy and seems content not to mention Connor’s new clock-watching habit. Noah does not abide it for very long before they speak up, voice ringing clear from the office through the kitchen.

“Should I get you the tally counter?” Noah is perched precariously in the swivel chair, half-wheeled in to the kitchen area. They stare Connor down from the bridge of their nose, eyebrows raised threateningly high.

Connor stares back and blinks, dipping his chin with a look of incredulity.

Noah shrugs, unaffected. “Well, you seemed as though you’d taken up a new hobby of counting seconds, and I figured that not even you could count that high without a little help.”

Connor huffs, rolling his eyes before he turns away to idly watch a young man picking through the loaves up front. He doesn’t dignify Noah with a response, instead setting about with various menial tasks around the kitchen to occupy his time until the end of the day. The last few hours seem to pass quicker than the morning, and by 3 P.M. the siblings are locking up shop and bidding Markus farewell as usual.

Unlike usual, Connor starts his overnight doughs in silence, quiet in thought as Noah watches him from across the table. The lull in conversation hangs between them for some time before Noah speaks up, a curious tone to their voice as they help portion large chunks of dough in to various containers.

“You’re not normally this quiet when you’ve met someone new.” The slap of dough against plastic punctuates Noah’s words. “Is there something you haven’t told me?”

Connor peers up from where he’s cutting from the largest portion of dough. He swallows. “No,” he replies, though he hesitates before he continues. “I’m just a little nervous, is all.”

Noah hums in interest, turning to stack the containers in their respective spots. “And yet you haven’t talked my ears off with every thought and worry that’s on your mind.”

Connor continues slicing away at the dough, shoulders sagging just a little. “There’s nothing to talk about, I suppose,” he says, but it comes out sounding defensive.

Noah frowns, rolling pile after pile of dough as Connor pushes them across the table. “If that were the case you wouldn’t be so tight-lipped.” They let one lump of dough plop ungracefully in to its container, sucking at their teeth as they do so. “Out with it, Connor.”

Connor lets Noah’s words hang in the air between them as he thinks, slicing up the last portions of dough and sighing. It isn’t as though they’ve never had this conversation before, but for Connor it never seems to get any easier.

He slides the last lump of dough across the table, wiping his hands carefully along his apron as he meets Noah’s gaze. His heart feels ready to leap from his throat, even if he knows Noah has his best interests in mind.

“I know I’m nervous because it’s been so long since I’ve even had an opportunity like this,” Connor starts, rocking back and forth where he stands. “Ever since we opened the shop, I mean. It’s a good nervous.”

Noah eyes him cautiously from the other side of the table, shutting the lid on the last container. Connor watches as their eyebrows peak slightly. “But?”

Connor tears his gaze away and stares at the floor, fingers twiddling at the old towel stuffed in his apron pocket. “But…” His heart thumps faster, hammering against his ribcage in a quick staccato. He curses, feeling tears burn at the corners of his eyes. Why is this so hard? Why is it always this hard?

Noah calmly approaches from around the table, leaning against the edge with their arms tucked loosely across their chest. Connor keeps his gaze on Noah’s shoes, afraid to look up and see what expression rests on his sibling’s face. The surprisingly gentle grip of Noah’s fingers tilt Connor’s head upwards, forcing him to meet their eyes with no option to turn away. He expects a harsh look, an annoyance that they’re having this conversation yet again, but all Connor sees is sympathy and understanding.

“You need to be honest with him, Connor.” Noah releases his chin, their hand resting against the curve of Connor’s shoulder. “Just like you’ve been with everyone before him. And if he turns you away, well…” Noah lets the sentence trail off, pulling his hand back and shrugging.

Connor snorts. “I don’t need to be defended, Noah.”

A lone eyebrow rises on Noah’s forehead. “I meant more that you should just move on, but of course I wouldn’t pass on an opportunity to verbally assault someone, should it present itself.”

Connor pins Noah with a stare. “Please don’t verbally assault anyone on my behalf.”

Noah smirks, licking their lips as they turn away to start wiping down the table. “You take the fun out of everything, you know.”

Connor lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head as he joins his sibling in the end of day cleaning. The silence between them is no longer strange to Connor, tension bleeding from his shoulders as they go through their routine. By time Connor locks the office and starts shutting off lights, Noah waits for him by the door, keys jingling impatiently and nose buried in their phone. When Connor approaches, Noah gives him a once over and narrows his eyes, lips pursed.

Connor stops dead in his tracks, brows furrowed. “What?”

“You said he’s meeting you at the park?” Noah slides their phone in to their pocket, wrenching the front door open.

Connor nods slowly, humming in confirmation. “Why?”

“Just a shame, is all.” Noah leads the way out the door, locking it behind themself and Connor. “Should have invited him back to the house for a drink.” Connor has barely a moment to groan before Noah adds, “Unless you’re in to public -”

Connor waves his hand dramatically, cutting Noah off. “No! That’s enough out of you.”

Noah laughs as they begin down the sidewalk to their car, leaving Connor alone in front of the store. “Text me later. You know I love details.”

A few moments pass as Connor watches Noah’s car fade in to the distance. As it disappears from view, Connor feels the familiar beat of dread course through his veins, his mind a whirlpool of thoughts and emotions. He stares out across the street, the path leading toward the riverwalk highlighted by the soft, orange glow of street lamps. With a deep breath, he turns to the crosswalk, acutely aware of that path and where it will take him.

Connor steps in to the road, the walk signal bright and beckoning as he crosses, the beat of his heart punctuating each echo of his footsteps on the pavement. It’s just a talk. He breathes deep, in and out. The shaking in his legs and the icy cold in his fingers and toes grows stronger and stronger with each footfall. He feels lightheaded, everything around him swimming at the edges of his vision, each second crawling at a snail’s pace yet passing quick like a flash of lightning.

He reaches the park and barely remembers how he got there. Benches line the perimeter and he chooses one at random, tucking himself to the side as he hides deeper within his coat.

It’s just a talk, and somehow it feels greater than that, a precipice whose bottom can’t yet be seen. It terrifies Connor, an unknown of which he can’t possibly fathom the outcome. Whether this conversation with Hank will pull him closer to that brink or pull him away, he isn’t sure, but it frightens him to think he could be denied any glimpse over that edge at all.

The feeling is so odd, after all this time. Proceeding with caution, forgotten in the face of bold curiosity and a subtle push from a friend.

Connor does not check his watch, and he does not check his phone for the time. He keeps the device in his hand in his coat pocket, almost anticipating the vibration of a text message, a last minute cancellation perhaps. The vibration never comes, and so he sits in silence watching the water of the river lap at concrete, the rumbling murmur of traffic and humanity echoing in the distance around him.

When the footsteps approach, Connor immediately recognizes their distinct slow shuffle, shoe heels scuffing pavement. His heart nearly stops in his chest, his mouth goes dry. A pair of dark brown work boots come in to view just a few feet away, stopping with a pronounced scrape. He breathes in - one, two - and forces himself to look up, gaze meeting a familiar pair of blue eyes.

Connor swallows. Despite his nerves, he forces out a weak greeting. “Hi.”

Hank smiles down at him, chuckling as he crosses his arms loosely over his broad chest. “Well, now I’m definitely convinced you knew it was me.”

Connor blinks, feeling sheepish as his eyes dart back down to Hank’s shoes. “That’s… yes, I had my suspicions.”

Hank grunts, but it’s soft and almost endearing. He takes the spot next to Connor on the bench, putting a respectful distance between them. “You embarrassed?”

Connor chances a look at Hank from the corner of his eye. He licks his lips, finding them dry like the rest of his mouth. “Not quite. I just… would have preferred to go about all of this differently.”

Hank lets out a small sound, resting his hands in his lap. “But your uh, ‘buddy’, ruined that for you, huh?”

Connor frowns slightly. “I already told you it wasn’t me.”

“Oh, I believe it.” Hank crosses one leg over the other, gaze steady on Connor. “You don’t strike me as the type to toss your number in to just anyone’s shopping bag.”

Connor shrugs. “Not usually, no.”

He can see the way Hank grins at him out of his peripheral, and can’t help letting a small smile cross his own lips. Hank isn’t upset or angry and it eases Connor’s nerves just a little, that unknown seeming less scary than before.

“So, do I still get the chance to change your mind about having your number?”

Connor turns to face Hank, still smiling as he takes in Hank’s relaxed demeanor. His eyes are crinkled a bit at the corners, his features exaggerated by the harsh lamp light lining the riverwalk. He’s wrapped up tight in his old, beat up jacket, the barest hint of a brightly patterned shirt collar peeking out from the top. He looks so casual, at ease, and it makes Connor’s heart flutter splendidly.

Connor leans back against the bench, calmed by Hank’s seemingly carefree attitude. “I’d say that you coming out here is pretty convincing as is.”

Hank raises an eyebrow. “Did you think I was gonna ditch you?”

Connor falters, biting his lip. “No. Yes? I don’t know.” 

Hank falls silent for a few seconds, chin tilted up in thought before he replies. “Does that happen to you a lot?”

It’s not a strange question to ask, though Connor feels taken off guard by it. “Not really. I don’t normally use my shop as a way of meeting people, though.”

Hank nods, contemplative. “Fair enough.” He uncrosses his legs, planting his feet flat on the ground before bringing one arm up to rest along the back of the bench. His fingers dangle dangerously close to Connor’s shoulder. “But we’ve already met, and now we’re here.”

The weather is cold, the river wind swirling around the space between them, yet Connor feels nothing but warmth. It blooms from his chest, out and down along his fingers and toes. It cycles through his body, pulsing in time with the now slowing beat of his heart, loosening the tight coil of nerves bundled deep in his chest.

Somehow, as he drags his gaze over Hank’s features, that unknown thing doesn’t seem so terrifying anymore.

“Are you actually pleased to have my number?”

Hank shifts, his hand moving closer to Connor’s shoulder, eyes meeting Connor’s. “Yeah, I suppose I am.”

Connor tips his chin down a tad, peering at Hank over the rim of his glasses. “Does that mean you’re interested in… more?”

Hank studies Connor for a few brief moments before he turns away, focusing on some distant point as he clears his throat. “I’m considering it, yeah.”

Silence fills the air. Connor doesn’t dare speak, not yet.

“It’s been a while since I, uh,” Hank begins, gesturing vaguely with his other hand. “You know. Been with another guy.”

“But you have had relationships with men?” Connor asks, voice quiet.

Hank cocks his head to one side as he runs a hand along his face and beard, sniffing. “Back in college, I s’pose. Way before I met my ex-wife. Wasn’t really relationships, though, just a bunch of guys experimenting I guess.”

Connor nods in understanding, though his heart sinks a little. “Hank, before we go any further, I need you to know that I’m looking for a relationship and not just sex.”

Hank huffs out a small laugh and grins, though he falters after a few seconds. “I got a kid, Connor. And an ex-wife, and all the baggage that comes with it. You really sure you want that?”

Connor pauses in thought, running his tongue along the back of his teeth. Cole is a sweet boy, adorable and inquisitive. Connor never really thought much about having children, but as he rolls the idea around in his head it doesn’t seem so awful. Different, yes, but not awful. Everything else can be taken as it comes. It would do him no good to worry about it all now.

“Life is very rarely neat and clean,” Connor remarks mildly. The corner of his mouth turns up in a small, wry smile. “I’d like to at least try. What do you want, Hank?”

Hank continues to look out over the river, gaze skimming along whatever it is he sees. He breathes in deep and long, exhaling slow as he adjusts himself on the bench again. When he speaks, his voice is low and quiet. “I don’t know.”

Connor notes the way Hank seems to shrink in on himself, the line of his brow creased down towards his nose. Hank has always seemed so confident and sure, yet here he looks conflicted and nervous. He rubs his fingers together where they rest near Connor, his other hand rubbing along the fabric of his jeans.

“Hell, everything’s been so static the past few years with the divorce and Cole that I just never really… thought about moving forward and all that shit.” Hank’s eyes flicker down to his lap, chin turning downward with it. “Figured, at my age it wasn’t really worth it.”

Connor furrows his own brow, tilting his head to one side. “I think you’re a very attractive man, Hank. If that’s what worries you.”

Hank hums, though he doesn’t respond.

“If you’re not interested in me, I understand -”

“It’s not that,” Hank says, shaking his head. He lifts his gaze, regarding Connor with an unreadable expression. “I like you, Connor. I want to get to know you better. I just don’t wanna rush in to anything yet, yeah?”

Connor stills, contemplative. Hank’s feelings aren’t without reason, his personal life being much more complicated than Connor’s own. Hank wants to be cautious and that’s a feeling Connor can understand easily, knowing far too well from his own past relationships that rushing things can be disastrous. Even if the future holds nothing for them as a couple, Connor greatly enjoys Hank’s company. There are positive outcomes to this that he can appreciate.

“I can understand that,” Connor replies, scuffing his feet lightly against the pavement. “I’m not particularly interested in forcing a relationship.”

Hank shrugs. “Was thinking about everything yesterday at the shop before I texted, realized you’ve been flirting this whole time, haven’t you?”

A pinkish blush blossoms across Connor’s cheeks, a shy sort of smile stretching along his features. “I may have shown a bit more favor towards you over other customers, yes.”

Hank’s demeanor seems to shift, his shoulders relaxing as he shoves both hands in to the pockets of his coat. A long moment passes between them, punctuated only by the sound of city life in the distance. Trucks and cars rumble along the river bridge, the twinkle of stars barely visible in the night sky. A comfortable silence settles among them, their admissions laid bare to parse and digest in each others’ minds.

“Hank,” Connor interrupts, tone soft. “There is… something you should know about me, before we do anything else.”

Hank perks up at Connor’s words, watching him with interest. “Don’t tell me you’re a serial killer or some shit.”

A honest laugh bursts from Connor’s mouth. “No. Not anything like that.”

Hank feigns a sigh of relief, even chuckling at his own joke. “Oh, well thank God for that. What is it?”

Connor inhales silently. “I’m transgender.”

He isn’t sure what reaction he expects from Hank. Connor knows so little about him that it feels as though anything could happen. Hank remains quiet, almost respectfully so as he seems to process what Connor has said. The seconds pass and Connor can practically hear the movements in his watch clicking away.

_Tick._

_Tock._

_Tick._

“Hank?”

And then -

“I’m just thinkin’, I’d still like to take you for a coffee sometime. If that’s okay.”

Connor cracks, the muscles in his face pulling taut in a wide grin as he gazes out over the river. “I prefer tea,” he replies, before adding, “If that’s okay.”

Hank groans dramatically. “Well this’ll never work then. Sorry, Connor.”

Connor chuckles, shaking his head. “Your jokes are terrible.”

“I spend most of my time talking to a six year old, gimme a break.”

“Duly noted,” Connor quips.

The rest of their conversation moves towards their plans for the upcoming week, with Hank promising to come by the shop at his usual time. Connor beams at every word, his shoulders relaxing and the tightness in his chest dissipating. As they walk back to Connor’s car together, Hank mentions that this week is his turn with Cole, hoping to bring him by sometime if possible. Connor encourages him to do so, even hinting at the possibility of more free pastries. That naturally piques Hank’s interest.

Their goodbyes are short but warm, with Connor spending the drive home replaying as much of the conversation in his head as he can remember. At each stop light, he daydreams about the way Hank looked beneath the lamp light, the curve of his lips with each smile that crossed his face.

When he enters his home, leaning against the now closed door, Connor’s own mouth curves upwards in unbridled happiness. He brings a hand up to his mouth, thumb stroking along his bottom lip, teeth gently nibbling at the nail.

In a single, unguarded moment, Connor imagines the kind of future that awaits him with Hank and with Cole. He doesn’t feel worry or doubt, the uncertainty long since abandoned. Alone beneath the yellow glow of his entryway light, Connor feels nothing but a breathtaking rush of joy, overtaking him as he closes his eyes and wonders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am... so sorry for the length of time between these updates, but if you follow me on Twitter you know that a lot has happened personally with me and I was not writing for some time. But I haven't forgotten, I promise. Just trying to tackle real life things in between this.
> 
> Also made some minor edits in previous chapters to line up with some things in this chapter. I hope the wait was worth it ;__;
> 
> And, as always, the biggest thanks to my beta <3
> 
> @pricklebrickle on Twitter


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